


The Hotel Room Affair

by selyndae



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 04:06:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10983021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selyndae/pseuds/selyndae
Summary: What happens when the boys fall into a ‘Space Opera’ adventure...?





	The Hotel Room Affair

**Author's Note:**

> _This first appeared in The Kuryakin Files, #29 with many thanks to Lisa Madden, editor._

**Prologue  
June 1967**

“Nnngggh,” groaned Illya.

Even exhausted from their last mission, that particular sound from his partner, woke Napoleon instantly.

They were in a rather plush hotel room, and for a change, not on a mission. Mr. Waverly had grudgingly agreed that his top team could stay in the tropics for a few more days; they’d been on back-to-back missions for the past month without respite (and, they couldn’t even get a flight home until Wednesday). Some early tropical storms had thinned out the usual tourist crowds, so they were able to get another room. A mini-vacation in a tropical paradise was just what the doctor ordered, for two tired super-spies. They were looking forward to some quality downtime, and the semi-nude beach, delightfully exotic meals, and a few clubs off the tourist-beaten track, were but a few of the temptations available, without the threat of Thrush (satrapy successfully snuffed).

Another groan returned his attention back to the present. “You okay?” he asked as he sat up in bed and studied his partner.

“This is supposed to be a vacation, is it not?” He deliberately turned over in his bed, away from Napoleon.

“A little too much to drink last night, eh?” teased Napoleon cheerfully.

A blood-shot glare, accompanied by some muttering too low to understand; probably just as well from the way it sounded

Not wanting to waste any of their unexpected vacation, Napoleon capitulated, and got up. Getting his kit he took out a bottle of aspirin tipped out a couple and filled a glass with cool tap water. “Here, these should help,” observing mildly, “I thought you could handle your liquor.”

Propping himself up on one elbow Illya accepted the medication mumbling, “This is why I try to avoid tequila, particularly in a native cantina.” 

Napoleon, sitting back down on his bed teased, “ _Maybe_ I should call for the Hotel Doctor to take a quick look at you. You’re looking a bit puny my friend.”

“Not if you value your life,” Illya snarled, “Now, _if_ you’re finished with your feeble attempt at comedy, I would like to be left alone… in silence, please.”

A huge sigh. “If that’s how you feel,” emoted Napoleon dramatically, “I’ll just—”

He never finished what he was going to say because at that moment the walls began to shimmer and ripple!

 

**Act I: I Never Really Believed in Little Green Men…**

“Napoleon...?”

Illya didn’t sound hung over now.

“Yes?” 

“I assume you saw the walls move just now.” Illya’s tone made it a statement rather than a question.

“And if I did?” The words came out reluctantly.

“I may know what’s going on.”

When he didn’t immediately continue, Napoleon prompted, “Well, what?”

“You’re not going to like the answer.”

“I’m going to like it less if you _don’t_ tell me.”

“This room… this _building_ feels wrong.” Staring unblinking at the walls, Illya added seriously, “No doubt we’ve been abducted by aliens.”

Napoleon stared for a moment before laughing out loud, “Wow! You had me going for a moment, Tovarisch.”

Illya was shaking his head, “I know you have doubts.”

_He would play along._

“You _do_ realize I am not crazy, do you not?” Illya said, sounding perfectly reasonable.

Napoleon gave himself a mental shake as he focused on Illya’s words. _After all, this was his partner, his best friend, and a darn good agent—one of the best. Maybe all he needed was a good—_

“Napoleon!” 

“Okay, okay,” he appeased, playing for time to think this through, “So, any ideas?”

Illya shrugged. Seeing his partner’s frown, he suggested slowly, “I _suppose_ it’s entirely possible we could have imagined it.”

At the expected glare, Illya broke out in a grin.

“Oh, go soak your head.” He couldn’t believe he actually fell for that.

Illya’s grin broadened even as he pulled the covers back over his head. “Wake me up if anything else happens!” He turned over and was asleep almost instantly.

As his partner dozed Napoleon walked over to the balcony and gazed out on the tropical scenery. Fresh air was what they needed. Maybe a little later they could go outside and see the sights. A little sunbathing, something to eat from one of those delightful outdoor cafes—maybe pick up a couple of pretty girls and go to one of those clubs later. _And, forget about mysterious shimmering walls and space aliens…_

***

“—so what do you say, shall we?” asked Napoleon after Illya woke up again, in a much mellower mood.

Having already showered and dressed, Illya appeared to be deep in thought. Napoleon was about to repeat his question when Illya abruptly snatched up his coat and started for the door.

Napoleon grabbed his own coat and started to follow, almost having to run in order to keep up with his friend.

Illya flung open the door and was heading out into the hallway when he stopped cold. It almost looked like he… _bounced_ off something. But that was clearly impossible. _Wasn’t it?_

Illya rubbed his head before cautiously putting a hand out in front of him. _There was definitely something solid--completely invisible, but solid! <./i>_

_“What the—” Napoleon cut off abruptly as he, too, touched the ‘invisible wall’ that prevented them from leaving their room._

_Illya’s eyes narrowed as he studied the ‘empty’ doorway, before he glanced at Napoleon, meeting a matching look of puzzlement and determination. Without a word they both lowered their shoulders and ran for the barrier. Maybe it just needed more force…_

__BOOINNG!_ _

_The two men fell back in a tangled heap. Not only couldn’t they push through— _this_ time, they were even _pushed back!__

_Dusting themselves off, they went straight to the open balcony. Looking out they could see the same scenery they’d been privy to all morning. Napoleon cautiously stepped out on the small balcony, furnished with a tiny bistro table and chairs, potted plants, and a roll-back awning. Walking over to the railing, he looked down. Six floors up was quite a drop, but a corresponding balcony was just below on the next floor._

_Illya, in tune with his partner, went to the closet and pulled a coil of rope from his suitcase. Returning to the balcony he secured the rope, flung it over the side, and started down._

_For a moment they thought it would work until Illya’s foot hit a solid barrier only six feet down._

__But the rope extended all the way down to the balcony below…_ _

_“I wonder how far out this barrier extends?” mused Illya, still hanging onto the rope._

_“I don’t care—you’re coming back up here_ now!” Napoleon matched action to words as he pulled up on the rope.

Illya didn’t answer as he scrambled up; pulling the rope back once he was safely on their balcony.

“Well!” said Napoleon brightly, “That was… interesting.”

Illya shot his partner a dour look before glancing back over the balcony. Still looking over the side he picked up one of the smaller pots, hefted its weight for a second and tossed it over the side in one swift movement.

The pot stopped at six feet, hesitated for a moment, rolled, and finally fell through the invisible barrier onto the balcony below where it smashed into pieces of dirt and crockery. Expression unreadable, Illya walked back into the room. For a moment he stared seemingly at nothing. Finally, carefully, he sat down. Napoleon sat down beside him very quietly.

After a lengthy silence, Napoleon finally ventured a question, “Now what?”

No answer.

“I’m going to presume we’re not in some kind of hospital, in a coma. If this is _real_ , then Thrush has really gotten some kind of super, science-fiction, techno-ma-jiggy device.” As if to himself, Napoleon continued slowly, “Or… maybe we’re dead and this is Hell.”

Illya gave him a sideways glance. “Napoleon, as a proper Soviet atheist, I don’t believe in Hell, so being dead is out. The idea about the coma is compelling… But…I think one us would at least have some memory—gunfire, pain. For the time being, anyway, I’m going to act as though this is… real.” 

“Time to call for reinforcements,” decided Napoleon, jaw set as he pulled out his communicator and twisted the top, “Open Channel D.”

Nothing. Not even static.

He tried again, re-twisting the pen several times, “Open Channel D,” and again, “Open Channel L.”

Still nothing.

Illya pulled out his own pen and tried.

Nothing.

“Looks like we’re on our own for this,” Illya remarked sourly.

Napoleon grimaced, “Swell. Oh boy, if Thrush really has this… device we are so screwed. How can we possibly fight them?”

“No doubt we should go with the ‘space alien’ theory.”

Napoleon snorted, “Yeah, right.”

Illya began to pace. “Look, if Thrush is really running this, we may as well give up now...” 

Napoleon looked at his partner shocked.

Illya continued. “Or, we can at least, _act_ as though we believe in the ‘space alien’ theory.” Seeing Napoleon’s skepticism, he added even softer, “Napoleon, as you know, I do not believe in color television, but because it obviously exists, I act as though I do. Can the idea of ‘space aliens’ who possess a powerful force field be that far-fetched?”

Napoleon turned thoughtful. “Okay, if you’re going to start believing in space ships and little green men, then I may as well be just as crazy and believe in them right along with you.” He grinned suddenly, “Any ideas?”

“Ask them…?” A shrug.

“Oh, of course, I should have thought of that.” Napoleon stood up and feeling somewhat foolish, smoothed down his hair, shot his cuffs and addressed the room, “I’d like to introduce ourselves. I’m Napoleon Solo and this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin. I’m not really sure why we’ve been incarcerated, and quite frankly, I’d appreciate a little more information regarding that. In the meantime, if you could just explain what it is you want, um, perhaps show yourselves to us…” Napoleon’s voice trailed off. When there was no apparent response, he shot a glare at Illya and said, “I never really believed in ‘little green men’ anyway.”

_// we… apologize for the delay… you are not trapped we merely wish to speak with you //_

The voice was inside their heads! 

Illya shot a startled glance at Napoleon. Seeing the same shock in his partner’s eyes, his eyes widened slightly before concentrating on the weird conversation determinedly, “If we’re not trapped, why can’t we leave?”

_// we wish your assistance //_

Napoleon snorted, unable to stop himself. “You may wish our ‘assistance’ but the polite way would have been to ask, rather than, er, lock us up. Now then, we wish to leave.”

There was a momentary pause. _// you cannot leave //_

“So we’re prisoners,” Illya said flatly, “Why?”

_// we will show you //_

The walls shimmered out of existence and were replaced by hard, slightly curved walls of metal, the room now glowing by some kind of diffused lighting with an eerie bluish glow. A large floor-to-ceiling window was on their left; through it they could see blackness and millions of pinpoints of lights… stars?

After several minutes of stunned bemusement at the dizzying sight, they watched as the walls shimmered back and they were once again inside the hotel room.

_// you cannot leave //_

Still somewhat shaken, Napoleon finally managed a disdainful demeanor, “You really expect us to believe we’ve just been abducted from the Earth, and are somewhere out in space?”

_// you cannot leave //_

“You’re repeating yourself,” Illya was openly contemptuous. “Whatever you call it, we are still your prisoners.”

_// you cannot leave we wish your assistance we will show you more //_

“Forget it! We’ve seen enough. If we’re not prisoners, then release us,” ordered Solo.

The two agents grew uneasy when everything remained silent. A knock at the door startled them into ducking, while reaching for their holstered weapons; Napoleon high, Illya low. A nod, and Napoleon abruptly yanked open the door.

Cowering in the hallway was a Bellhop, behind a covered cart.

“We didn’t order room service,” said Napoleon laconically, weapon drawn and in view.

“N-no, sir,” stammered the luckless Bellhop, “th-the food was ordered for here b-by _them_.”

“I see,” responded Napoleon. Using his gun to gesture, he drawled, “Well, come on, bring it inside.”

The Bellhop practically stumbled into the room in his haste to comply with Solo’s orders. Once inside, Illya grabbed the man from behind and moving his lips near the shaking man’s ears, said almost soundlessly, “Give me your jacket.”

The Bellhop fumbled open the buttons on his jacket and hastily handed it to Illya who immediately slipped it on. Pushing the Bellhop down on his knees, Napoleon watched as Illya began to push the cart back outside.

The cart sailed out into the hall, but Illya was pushed back by the barrier.

Rolling back onto his feet, he grabbed the Bellhop and hissed menacingly, “Bring back the cart!”

Stumbling, the Bellhop returned to the hallway and wheeled the cart back into the room. Once inside, Napoleon carefully guided the cart over to the balcony. As he shook out the tablecloth, Illya quickly crouched down and rolling himself into a ball, scrunched into the bottom shelf, gun drawn. Napoleon dropped the cloth over the cart.

Looking at the cart with an exaggerated frown Napoleon waved it away with a sweeping gesture. “I don’t believe we’re hungry after all. Take it away,” he ordered imperiously.

The Bellhop hurried to comply and got the cart to the door. Stepping out of the room he and the cart went out to the carpeted hall; Illya was once again shoved off the cart with ‘invisible hands’ at the threshold... this time unconscious.

 

**Act II: War-Mongering Aliens?**

Illya remained unresponsive for a few minutes—just enough time for Napoleon to put him into the recovery position, check his breathing, and lock the door, _for whatever good that will do._

Waking up with a groan Illya opened his eyes to meet his partner’s worried ones. Sitting up carefully he glowered. “That’s it Napoleon! From now on, we take separate vacations.” 

Feigning dismay, Napoleon rapidly turned serious again. “I’m not going to ask you if you’re okay since I already know what you’ll say, but—” he raised a hand to stop the automatic protest, “I _am_ concerned.”

Illya merely snorted his response as he walked over to the phone and dialed the front desk. “Hello, I’d like to order lunch... Yes, Room 669... No, just send up two of whatever the specialty of the house is today... Oh, and a bottle of your best scotch, and vodka... Thank you. Be sure to put it on our host’s tab.”

“Smooth,” remarked Napoleon with a grin.

“I’m hungry.” He turned sharply at a knock on the door.

Both edged over, guns drawn, Napoleon called out, “Who is it?”

“Room service.”

A quick glance at each other before Napoleon said, “Come in.”

The door opened readily (without the sound of the locks being opened) and the same Bellhop was at the door with a cart. Smiling somewhat nervously he pushed the cart inside and asked deprecatingly, “Shall I set this up on the balcony, or will you be dining indoors this afternoon? Or, perhaps I should just tip it over?”

Cocking an eyebrow Illya ordered softly, “Leave it.” 

Although Kuryakin spoke quietly, the Bellhop, sensing danger, gulped and began to back away. He skittered out of the room almost in a panic.

“That wasn’t nice at all.”

Illya was unrepentant as he wheeled the cart over to the balcony. “He irritated me.”

Napoleon watched as his partner lifted the lids off the various dishes. It smelled wonderful. Satisfied, Illya piled food on his plate before seating himself at the small bistro table. The bottle of Stolichnaya had fogged up—apparently properly stored in a freezer—Illya took a healthy swig before returning his attention to the meal.

“Uh, shouldn’t you be a little, um, cautious?” asked Napoleon somewhat bemused.

Illya finished chewing his bite (a perfectly-cooked steak) and glanced up at his partner. “You can wait to see if I am poisoned. Thrush, space aliens, what-have-you, I’m hungry.” He looked down at his plate, “This is without a doubt the most delicious steak I’ve ever eaten.” He took another bite and added blissfully, “At least I’ll die happy.”

Napoleon, somewhat disquieted by the cavalier attitude of his friend sighed before sitting down in the other chair and fixing his own plate. He had to agree with Illya though—everything was absolutely delicious!

Lingering over their drinks, the two moved back inside the room to sit on the plump sofa where they could be comfortable as they waited for...whatever was going to happen.

“That was perfect. I wonder how they knew just what to cook?” mused Napoleon after a swallow of his Scotch.

Illya raised an eyebrow, before answering matter-of-factly, “I would imagine with anyone who can keep us prisoner by means of a heretofore unknown invisible barrier, and speak with us ‘telepathically,’ can also create the perfect meal.”

“You seem rather sanguine about this,” remarked Napoleon.

“There’s no point to ranting and I prefer to choose my battles.” He knocked back his glass of vodka and poured himself another. Peering at the bottle he remarked, “Good vodka.”

They drank companionably each deep in their own thoughts when suddenly the hairs at the backs of their necks began to rise. Alerted, eyes darting around the room, both agents leaned forward, preparing themselves for the unknown danger even though the room was apparently empty.

“Tell me what you see, Napoleon?” asked Illya, a strange light in his eye.

Napoleon looked. “Where... what should I see?” 

“Look closer, just along the edge of the window.”

Napoleon stared at the indicated area and— _there_! That shimmering along the window was definitely _not_ any kind of reflection.

Illya shoved him down on the floor just as the heat of two energy blasts whizzed past them leaving the acrid tang of ozone, and burning a hole into the ornate coffee table.

Scrambling to a more defensible position, Illya pulled out his gun from his holster and fired off a couple of bursts into the glint of light, which had alerted him. Napoleon crawled around to another spot on the other side of the room and, seeing another flash, fired off some volleys of his own.

“Can you see them?” hissed Napoleon as he checked his clip.

“No,” answered Illya as he cautiously lifted up a decorative pillow. After waving it around with no return fire, he lowered it, scooted over a few feet and raised it again. Nothing.

“Think you got them?”

“I don’t think so, but they _may_ have left.” An incautious movement of his arm elicited more enemy fire.

“Or not,” observed Napoleon wryly as he fired off a few more rounds.

Another whine of energy blasts followed by silence. This time, when waving the pillow brought no response, he waved his arm recklessly. Still nothing. Cautiously he peeked around the edge of the sofa. On the balcony halfway into the room was a body completely covered in some kind of one-piece body suit and mask; blood streaks were on the railing. Illya darted over to the wall and checked for a pulse while he glanced through the railing. When he was sure he had a corpse, he moved closer to the railing and looked over the side where the other body lay bloody and broken on the balcony below.

Napoleon, who had moved in from the opposite direction, relaxed when he saw the bodies. Just as they holstered their guns a misty shape appeared and wavered in the room.

_// the food has enabled you to see us. you have neutralized the immediate threat //_

“How convenient,” murmured Illya snidely.

_// we require your assistance //_

Napoleon straightened his shoulders and brushed back his hair. “What exactly is it you’re asking?”

_// we require your assistance //_

“You’ve already said that. I’m afraid we can’t help if we don’t know what you’re talking about so—”

_// we will speak through our... liaison //_

A knock sounded on the door and the Bellhop walked in despite the locks. 

_Why did they even bother?_

Once inside he began to speak, eyes unfocused and head tipped to one side as if listening. “We are here from the next galaxy, the one you call the Large Magellanic Cloud. We have visited your planet often over the last millennia. You are a curious and passionate people. Your development has been varied and inspired, although at times somewhat… disturbing. 

“That point of... disturbance is largely why we are here now.”

Napoleon’s expression got grimmer with each word. To someone who knew him as well as Illya did, it was the face of a man who was in too deep and frightened, but determined not to reveal anything. Illya’s own face was stony when Napoleon said bluntly, “So, you are here to sit in judgment? Destroy us or perhaps perform vivisection, and other atrocities on us.”

The Bellhop paled. “No!” he protested loudly. In a whisper he added, “Never that.”

“Then, what?” he demanded, “Why are we your prisoners?”

Slumping, the Bellhop, once more himself, tried to explain. “Not prisoners.” Seeing Napoleon’s forbidding look and Illya’s lethal glare, he rushed on, “That is, you can’t leave right now on account of no air outside. This is a… spaceship. You’re our guests,” He listened again, “No matter what you finally decide.”

“And, this thing we have to decide, would be...?” prompted Napoleon.

“We need your help—desperately in order to stop a serious threat to the Ethian people. This powerful race has completely abolished war. Their society is one of simplicity, where they cherish nature, while at the same time, is one of complexity, where the sciences are embraced. Family is important among the Ethians. Extended families, including adopted members are very close. I should know—they adopted me shortly after the Crash when we lost everything.

“Above all, their world is a warm and welcoming one; a place where every individual is cherished for themselves, whatever their appearance, talents, or, abilities.

Napoleon had been following the young man’s words closely. _He makes them sound…quite wonderful. Hmm, all that aside, I wonder what he meant by…?_ “The Crash?” wondered Napoleon. 

“Yeah. We used to own a large chain of hotels,” the Bellhop looked sad as he relived the memory, “My father committed suicide and Mom, well, she was never the same afterwards. Pop felt it important to earn your own way, so I was working in one of our hotels as a Bellhop. When the market bottomed out, I was lucky enough to still have a job. 

“I managed to keep her in one of the luxury suites with all her favorite things until her death four years later.” He shook his head at the memory. 

“One night I stepped outside for a smoke when there was a commotion in the alley. Some thugs were beating the daylights out of a guy. I hate odds like that, and scared them off. Turned out it was one of the Ethian emissaries, who later invited me to join them. I’ve never regretted a single moment.” He grinned.

“They aren’t violent. Far from it. They can’t use _any_ kind of force whatsoever against _anyone_. That’s why they need you guys. You’re very good at your, um, profession. Skilled, talented, experienced and you would give your lives if that’s what it took, to protect the innocent. The Ethians are the innocents here, about to be destroyed by a group of, er, people who call themselves Raffjanics whose sole purpose is to steal and destroy, much as the group you call Thrush, here on your own planet.”

“Ah, you’ll forgive me if I interrupt, but how do we know you’re the good guys?” Solo’s tone was mild.

The Bellhop froze for an instant before countering with his own question, “If someone vouched for me—say, someone you trust, would that help?”

Solo, glancing at his partner, nodded. “That would help, yes.”

The Bellhop paused, listening before saying, “Go ahead and use your communicator to call your boss.”

Frowning, Napoleon pulled out his pen and twisting it said, “Open Channel D.”

A crackle, _“Channel D open. Napoleon? I thought you were off for a few days.”_

“Hello Sarah. Um, something came up. Put me through to Mr. Waverly please.”

Another crackle. _“Waverly, here.”_

Plucking the pen out of Napoleon’s hand, the Bellhop grinned as he spoke, “Alex, is that you?”

_“This is Alexander Waverly. Who is this?”_

“John Richards… from the Regency, before and after.”

_“The Regency…? Oh! Yes, I see. Jack, it’s been a long time.”_

“That it has. Look, I need a favor from you. I have two gentlemen here who need some verification. If you could…?”

_“Ah, yes, I presume that would be Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin. Should I assume then, that you have need of their services?”_

“That’s what we’re asking for. If they agree, and if you give the word, that is.”

_“By all means. Put Mr. Solo back on.”_

Somewhat bemused, Napoleon reached out for his communicator. “Solo, here, Sir.”

_“Mr. Solo, I am surmising that you and Mr. Kuryakin are a bit out of your depth just now, however, you can trust Mr. Richards completely.”_

“Sir—”

_“Mr. Richards has given me the proper code sequence. I hope you’ll be kind enough to hear him out.”_

“Yes, Sir, uh, Thank you.”

Leaning in toward the still-open communicator, the Bellhop said, “Thanks Alex. I’ll get down to see you later if at all possible.”

_“That would be most enjoyable.”_

There was silence as the connection was finally broken.

“Sooo…?” The Bellhop was concerned.

Another nonverbal discussion and Solo said calmly, “What is it you want from us?”

“First let me assure you, the Ethians plan is to subdue— **not** destroy. _Assuming_ the Raffjanics are defeated in this battle, they will be contained within a sphere for as many millennia as needed, until they either destroy themselves or better yet, learn to compromise and not take, so to speak. 

“I’ve already told you that the Raffjanics steal and destroy. They’re—” here Richards stopped, trying to compose himself. Voice somewhat tremulous he finally continued, “They’ve completely… ruined at least one entire system. The two planets that-that used to have people were stripped of their resources, minerals, plants, animals. They were left with nothing.

“Then came the battle… the Raffjanics usually fight one—in their terms, _glorious_ battle—where they satisfy their blood lust.”

As the list of atrocities unfolded, the agents worked hard keeping their own emotions under control. Both had experienced war first-hand—Illya during the Great Patriotic War when he was a boy, and Napoleon when he fought in Korea. Since that time they’d been exposed to other wars, revolutions, and skirmishes all over the world in their job and in the confrontations with Thrush. It never got easier…

“—But we need your help.”

“You want us to fight against a whole species of war-mongering aliens?” Napoleon was skeptical. 

“No, no, no, not _everyone_ —just a small advance group. They’re setting up a base, much like those Satraps you’re used to overthrowing.”

There was some deliberation as Napoleon and Illya conferred wordlessly in their usual fashion. In the end Napoleon said brightly, “How can we resist? We’re all yours.”

Richards started to lead them out of their room when Napoleon asked conversationally, “I’m curious about something. You said they took you in shortly after the _Crash_? The only thing that comes to mind was the Crash of 1929, but that’s…” he broke off at John’s grin.

“No, you’re right, it was Black Tuesday.”

“But that’s impossible. You’d have to be well over 60 years old!”

“Closer to 70, but yes, I am.”

 

**Act III: Look Out Flash Gordon!**

Now that they’d agreed to help the Ethians, Napoleon and Illya were given free run of the ship. As they wandered through the enormous ship, they saw dozens of people going about their various duties. Everyone smiled and seemed friendly, when encountered by the agents. Illya found himself blushing at some of the more skimpily-clad outfits worn by both the men and the women. Napoleon, on the other hand, fully embraced the ‘uniform of the day’ and openly admired the freedoms of these people—at least by the females. For himself, though, he preferred more... formal attire.

_// you will join some of our people //_

At the telepathic words, a particularly lovely woman touched Napoleon’s arm, to lead them to a long passage ending at a large room, which suddenly opened up in front of them. Feeling a bit exposed, they nevertheless began walking toward the center of the immense room, where a small group of people was standing. Napoleon smiled when he recognized John Richards, sans the bellhop uniform. 

“Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin,” Richards began, “I’d like you to meet your team. Katalinga will be working with you in developing any needed equipment.” Brunette and slightly taller than Illya, Katalinga inclined her head and smiled solemnly. The Bellhop turned to the other lady, a willowy blonde, whose abundant curly hair tumbled down her back, from the jewel-encrusted tiara. After giving a slight bow to the Lady, he turned back to the agents and said, “This is the Princess Shaylah, most Serene. Her people are the ones in the immediate danger.”

Illya wasn’t surprised to see Princess Shaylah taken in by his partner’s charm as Napoleon greeted the Princess. When he glanced at Napoleon, though, he was startled to see the same look of genuine delight in Napoleon’s eyes.

Leading the small group over to an alcove, Richards passed his hand over a small panel, opening a door. Inside was a well-equipped laboratory.

“I will leave you to become better acquainted. Food will be sent in shortly; in the meantime you might want to begin planning your strategy, and set up whatever you think you’ll need.” The Bellhop waved vaguely around the room.

Illya, seeing that Napoleon and Princess Shaylah were still engrossed with each other said, “We will be fine, thank you.”

Already focusing on the task ahead, Illya walked over to a convenient workbench and sat down as Katalinga pulled up a stool and joined him. Feeling her attention, Illya looked up and was immediately struck by her dark, intelligent, deep-set eyes, which he realized were a very dark charcoal grey—an attractive but unusual color making him suspect she wasn’t as ‘human’ as she appeared. 

“Shall we begin—?” Katalinga’s voice was low and musical.

“Illya is fine.”

Her sudden smile was almost blinding in its intensity, her dusky coloring and somber expression making the smile even more breathtaking. “Please... call me Tali.”

Realizing he was grinning back, Illya gave himself a mental shake to stop dwelling on extraneous details. “Thank you Tali. Shall we get started then?” He began jotting down some notes.

On the other side of the room Napoleon and Princess Shaylah were still gazing at each other. Napoleon finally cleared his throat. “I, um, I’d like to offer our sympathy to your plight, um, that is…” Inwardly, Napoleon cringed; he hadn’t been this tongue-tied as this since he’d first hit puberty. 

Princess Shaylah gave a sad smile (making Napoleon want nothing more than to draw her into his arms and kiss her sorrows into oblivion) and dropped her eyes demurely. “Your empathy is of great comfort to me... Napoleon. I may call you Napoleon, yes?”

Giddy with delight, Napoleon stammered, “Most definitely yes, Your Highness, of course. Napoleon would be fine!”

Princess Shaylah’s smile deepened as she invited shyly, “Please—I’d like to you to call me Shay—at least when we’re... alone.”

Napoleon felt himself blush at that delightful idea. Not quite trusting his voice, he nodded offering a singularly sweet smile.

***

Hours later, they’d fallen into their usual pattern of Illya working the scientific-gadgetry end, while Napoleon put together the strategies.

Illya was enthusiastic. Picking up the weapon, he pointed out the enhancements he’d made on the Specials with Tali’s help. Napoleon nodded as he followed Illya’s instructions carefully. “When you press this lever,” he demonstrated pushing the lever located just next to the sleep-dart adjustment, “you convert to an energy discharge. It’s a rather painful stun, but far from fatal.”

Picking up his own modified Walther, Napoleon held it up and sighted along the barrel. Hefting it again, he said, “It feels a bit heavier. What kind of accuracy should I expect?”

Illya, picking up his own Special, stood up. “There’s a room on the deck below which will serve nicely as a firing range. Richards assures me it’s not only soundproofed, but has a protective force field around it, which will keep anything from getting away from us. We can practice using the modifications.” 

 

Much later, both agents were finally satisfied with their target scores. The original sleep darts had no discernable difference from before, and fortunately, neither did the live rounds. Aware that there was no more live ammunition available, they only fired a couple of shots apiece to verify the accuracy.   
The energy bolts though, were vastly different in that they had no discernable kickback. This proved difficult to overcome, but after the long session, was finally achieved.

With a supply of the newly-modified Walthers in production, in one of the manufacturing plants below decks, Napoleon was free to select the back-up teams from the eager volunteers of Princess Shaylah’s people. Illya, inspecting some of the new Specials, was pleased with the consistent quality. But… he wished he had as much confidence in the untried aliens as Napoleon seemed to.

Speaking of Napoleon... Illya’s brows furled in worry, as he thought about the circumstance surrounding Napoleon and the Princess. In his experience, it never boded well getting involved with innocents. He gave a mental shrug; it wouldn’t be the first time Napoleon had gotten ‘involved’ with a pretty girl—charming the fairer sex was as natural to his partner as breathing, and the women lapped it up every time.

Suddenly recalling the unusual look of Napoleon’s... infatuation, sent a shiver of worry down Illya’s back.

A cursory knock and Richards walked in, startling Illya out of his dark thoughts.

“I’m not interrupting am I?”

“What is it?”

_// we offer assistance //_

The Bellhop sketched a slight bow, “If you’ll come with me, there’s something you should see.”

Illya followed him out of the room and down a long corridor where he was quickly joined by an unusually-disheveled Napoleon. Something about the relaxed demeanor gave Illya a pretty good idea what his partner had been up to.

“What’s going on—any idea?” asked Napoleon out of the side of his mouth.

“I expect we’ll find out soon enough.”

Stopping, John gave a mischievous grin, as he waved them inside, “I believe you’ll like this.”

They entered the large laboratory-like room carefully. Wandering around, Napoleon stopped in front of some kind of control board with blinking lights.

“What do you suppose this does?” asked Napoleon as he studied the colorful console.

Illya took a hard look. “It _could_ be a rather sophisticated launcher...” he offered cautiously, his voice trailing off.

Napoleon walked around the small room over to a small niche where some kind of—could it actually be...?

“Illya, look at this.”

Illya turned and raised his eyebrows. “A personal, um, rocket pack?”

Napoleon grinned, “Look out Flash Gordon!”

Illya quirked a grin, “It should make it easier to get around. I wonder what the range is.”

“Let’s find out,” Napoleon grinned even broader as he began to put on the pack, “I’ve _always_ wanted to fly one of these things.”

***

It was _fun_ trying out the marvelous devices, that seemed to come directly from comic books or movie serials! Maybe all the stories about flying saucers really _were_ true, and the writers had come up with their fantastic ideas based from real life in outer space.

_// they come from your mind //_

“From us?” Illya was startled. He was quite sure he’d never imagined all... this.

Napoleon was quiet as he landed carefully. Once Illya landed next to him, Napoleon turned and said somewhat embarrassed, “I guess all this stuff about outer space reminded me of when I was a kid,” He shrugged before grinning boyishly, “I guess that’s a good thing now,” he added as he looked at all the wonderful science-fictional array of devices.

Illya quirked a grin. “Yes, a pretty good thing.”

_// it is time //_

Solo and Kuryakin immediately swung into ‘agent mode,’ and began gathering the weapons they had chosen for the mission, tucking away the various devices. They entered the room for the final briefing where the volunteers had gathered silently. After a quick glance over the group, Solo said, “Remember your orders—you are to stay outside of the complex while Mr. Kuryakin and I infiltrate. If everything goes as planned, the planted devices will stun the Raffjanics and allow the Ethians to take control of the situation. You are to engage _only_ if we’re not successful and the enemy slips out, in which case you will defend _only_ as you practiced. Is that clear?”

Several nods and murmurs of agreement came from the group, all armed with the non-lethal ‘Specials’ and wearing alien-designed capes of a special material to help deflect any stray blasts of energy.

_They were so determined to defend themselves and their ideals, that it overpowered any doubts they might have in this far too real engagement ahead. Like children staging mock battles._

Solo pushed his doubts away as he gave his final orders.

“Let’s go.” Solo nodded at the group. They were almost to the door when a small group led by Princess Shaylah met them.

Bowing slightly to the Princess, Napoleon met the Bellhop’s eyes inquiringly.

Richards looked solemn. “We are here to wish you luck.”

Illya was cynical. “We’ll need it.”

Napoleon waving away Illya’s inborn pessimism said, “Never mind him. And, thanks.”

Tali standing calmly beside the Bellhop took a step forward and handed Illya two straight pins. Illya gave a brief smile at the small objects—they were the homing pins taken from his suit jacket. Currently clad in his black roll-top sweater and pants, he’d apparently forgotten to transfer these over.

“Thank you Tali,” he said slipping one of the pins under the collar of his sweater; the other he deftly slipped under Napoleon’s lapel.

Princess Shaylah was standing formal and stiff, her lovely face expressionless. Staring at both men, her eyes widened as she blurted out, “Napoleon! You’re not wearing the protective garment!”

Napoleon answered carefully, “Princess Shaylah, as wonderful as the capes are, we’re not used to wearing them, and they could hinder the mission.”

Princess Shaylah’s brow furled in worry as she digested this unwelcome news. Finally, though, Napoleon’s confident smile seemed to loosen her feet, for she suddenly glided over to him, brushed a kiss on his lips and gave him her handkerchief. “My token,” she said quietly.

“Thank you.”

A jaunty, two-fingered salute and they were off.

 

**ACT IV: Just Another Day at the Universe**

The enemy stronghold looked much like any Thrush satrap they’d infiltrated in the past. The same guards, same protective barriers; the only real difference was that this was _not_ Thrush but a bunch of aliens who, like Thrush, were determined to take over the world—or rather, worlds.

Slipping inside the compound didn’t prove any different. As planned, Solo and Kuryakin headed toward the center. According to their intel, there would be a power source which the Raffjanics needed for their invasion. If this could be destroyed—no, the Ethians only wanted it stopped— _but_ , as long as it _was_ stopped, the bomb-like devices they’d be planting would allow the barrier to come down and contain the enemy.

 

As with so many long-range plans, this one did not play out as expected. For one thing, the power source was better guarded than originally thought, and not by the aliens themselves, but rather by some kind of electronic scanning device.

“I’m going to plant four pieces of explosive around the field,” whispered Illya. These were from their very limited store of live ammo.

“Will they work?” Napoleon asked carefully.

“They’ll have to—nothing else is strong enough.”

“Uh, I hate to bring this up, but the Ethians were very clear about using unnecessary violence. I _know_ ,” seeing Illya’s look of disbelief, hastily added, “it was just a suggestion.”

Sighing, Illya made a face and said almost defensively, “I was going to put them so that they would explode _inwardly_ , toward the power source. That should adequately confine the explosion.

Napoleon gave a short nod, “Okay, change of plan. We’ll set the charges to detonate in, say, two minutes and use the rocket packs to get the hell out of Dodge.”

Illya grinned, “It lacks a certain finesse, but subtlety is highly overrated!”

Napoleon’s answering grin gave him a rakish look as he began to gather up their gear. Illya was just finishing his placement of the last of the explosives when a prickling on the back of his neck warned him of potential danger. Looking up he found himself staring directly into the eyes of one of the Raffjanics!

Even as he threw his body quickly to one side to avoid the sharp discharge of the enemy’s weapon, Illya realized that this was the first time he’d actually _seen_ one of the aliens. The others had been covered in cloaks and body armor, but this one has pushed his cloak aside for his attack.

Another blast—this one, close enough to singe his shoulder. Somersaulting away, and landing on his feet in a gymnast’s move, put Illya out of the way of yet another blast, but even as he raised his own weapon to bear, a nimbus caught the alien directly in the back of the head. Almost in slow motion, the enemy dropped to the floor. Just behind his fallen body stood Napoleon, his own Special in hand.

“You okay?” he hissed.

Illya nodded, repressing a groan as he worked through the hot pain in his shoulder. He gingerly walked over to join Napoleon, and take a look at the Raffjanic. Standing, he would be about six feet in height and, by human standards, severely obese. The legs were short and stubby while the arms were long, hanging down past the individual’s knees; the long, knobby fingers webbed. Looking down at the dead-white, pock-filled complexion and large, bulging eyes, mercifully closed now, Illya still shuddered as he recalled their appearance—blood red where the ‘whites’ should be and glowing with an almost... slimy gleam—ugh!

Shaking off his reverie, Illya touched Napoleon’s arm and pointed at his watch. “I’m setting the detonator for _one_ minute—I’m sure this guy has friends!”

Napoleon, one hand in place for ‘lift off’ and the other holding his Special nodded as he glanced up at the high-domed ceiling. “Whenever you’re ready...”

Illya said, “Now,” as he pressed his watch stem. Seeing that the first detonator was activated, he pressed the controls on his rocket pack and started off from the ground; Napoleon right with him.

They just cleared the first perimeter of the huge complex when the power source exploded! As if that were a starting signal, the skirmish was now engaged.

Energy bolts were flying everywhere—the air cloudy from ozone discharge. The eeriest part of the battle was that other than the whine of the blasters, there was actually very little noise. Illya was nudging his rocket pack into a position opposite Napoleon when he saw it—a small band of the enemy splintering off to circle around and sneak in the other side. Quietly and swiftly he dropped altitude to land behind a small knoll.

Amid the flying bolts of lightening from the enemy alien’s weaponry, Illya rolled and dove for cover even as he fired back answering shots of his own. The (non-fatal) test weapon worked perfectly, and as his shots rang true, the aliens dropped in their tracks, unconscious. Then, to his horror, he saw another one of the aliens heading for Napoleon, his weapon—judging by the size—could be fatal! Illya’s weapon misfired! _Chyort!_ Without hesitation, Illya flung himself into the trajectory of the enemy’s blast.

The deadly shot caught him hard in the chest. 

Completely paralyzed by the bolt, Illya couldn’t breathe. Even as he lay feebly gasping for badly needed oxygen, he found himself drifting into a stupor from which he suspected he would never awaken. Glancing over, he saw Napoleon’s look of horror through badly blurred vision. 

In slow motion, Illya saw his friend move over to reach him. Fighting to stay conscious, he was faintly surprised to realize that Napoleon was now holding him.

Suddenly everything went dark and the two agents found themselves being pulled away by invisible hands. A huge dampening field sparked in front of them, causing Napoleon to duck, automatically sheltering Illya and himself from the onslaught.

Napoleon gasped, “What just happened?”

_// the shield has been implemented //_

They were no longer alone. Instead they were surrounded by their volunteer contingent, who was applauding quietly.

Stunned, Napoleon scanned the crowd, until he spotted Richards. Catching his eye he asked, “What’s going on here?” 

The Bellhop smiled, as he came up to the two agents. Reaching out he plucked the homing pin from Napoleon’s jacket. “These helped us pinpoint your location, and pull you out before implementing the shield.” He bowed slightly before adding formally, “For your help, we thank you.” Studying Napoleon he frowned in concern at the bruising, smeared dirt, and blood before looking at Illya, who was still short of breath and had his own bruising, dirt and blood. A quick motion behind him brought gurneys and the injured agents were efficiently loaded up. Before they were moved, a slim figure pushed herself from out of the crowd and rushed over to Napoleon’s side.

“Napoleon,” Princess Shaylah whispered brokenly as she grasped his hands, oblivious of how they stained her own. “You’re hurt!”

Napoleon brought one of her hands up to his lips and kissed it, before saying quietly, “I’m fine.” He glanced over at Illya who was beginning to get irritated at the fuss in trying to ‘help’ him. “I’d better go along with my partner here before he forgets himself, though. I’ll see you later,” looking down at his clothing in mild disgust adding, “When I’ve had a chance to clean up a bit.” He gave a faint smile, the best he could achieve under the circumstances before leaning back. _He was so tired. Some vacation this was._

“How bad is it?” Napoleon was concerned as he looked over his partner, who only moments before, was on the verge of dying.

“I’m fine.” 

From his tone, Solo knew differently but let it go for now.

Seeing his partner’s hesitation, Illya made a shooing motion, “Go! Get cleaned up and keep your promise to the Princess.”

***

It was maybe an hour later that Illya was finally resting. A well-earned glass of vodka was at his elbow, while he studied schematics on the rocket packs. Shifting painfully at the quiet tap on the door, he swore under his breath, “Who is it?” 

The door opened and Princess Shaylah peeked inside timidly. Seeing Illya she walked inside closing the door behind her. “Mr. Kuryakin—Illya—could we talk for a moment?”

Illya struggled to stand up when the Princess said quickly, “Please, stay seated!”

Illya nodded and sat back.

Princess Shaylah stood—every inch the ruling princess before slumping suddenly. Stammering, she whispered, “I-I want to talk about Napoleon. Oh, Illya, I love him so very, very much.” Then she began to sob. 

Illya, not knowing what to do, simply took her hand into his and stroked it, until her sobbing faded into sniffling, finally stopping altogether. “Your Highness,” began Illya tentatively.

Princess Shaylah shook her head, forestalling whatever Illya was about to say. Passionately she whispered, “If it were possible, I would gladly give up my kingdom, to stay by My Napoleon’s side. He has told me of his life on Earth, and I know it is his place to remain there,” Impatiently blinking away tears she added, “but... it cannot be my place—my responsibilities are here, as My Napoleon’s responsibilities are on his Earth.”

Illya didn’t know how to reply to that. She was right, of course. Loath though he was to talk about Napoleon’s private affairs, he felt the Princess deserved his honesty—but, Napoleon deserved his loyalty first. This would have to be between the Princess and Napoleon. 

He finally settled for giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

Dabbing at her tears Princess Shaylah stood up. “Thank you for listening to a foolish dream,” as she leaned over and brushed his cheek with a kiss, “Please, _please_ keep him safe.”

Then she fled.

It was only a short time later that another knock came to the door. This time the door opened without waiting for any response. It was, as he expected, Napoleon, now back to his suave and dapper self. His expression, though, was not as usual; instead it was... sad. He had a ready smile for Illya but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

***

“I _know_... I know. It’s just that... Illya, I _love_ her.” Napoleon was shaking his head sadly

“If it’s any help, she loves you as well.”

For a moment, Napoleon looked hopeful. Then he shook his head resignedly. “I know she does,” he said quietly, “But, she’s a Princess, in charge of a whole planet, and I’m an agent. We both have our jobs,” He shrugged carelessly before adding harshly, “And never the twain shall meet!”

Illya touched Napoleon’s arm in sympathy before he was helped up. 

“We have to go,” said Napoleon shortly.

Illya, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, hated the circumstances with a passion that surprised him as they left.

***

Richards’ smile was gentle. “It’s time and actually, you really won’t remember any of this.”

“That works for me,” Napoleon said glancing at his partner who was pale and trembling, pushed his own heartache aside hoping he would forget _that_ as well.

The Bellhop turned to begin the procedure that would get them back; Illya raised his head and rasped, “What-what if we want to… remember?”

Richards tipped his head listening. After a moment he grinned, “In a few decades or so, when we return this way we’ll look you up. If you can sever all ties—and still want to join up with us, you will be most welcome.”

Illya gave a short nod, and at a touch of his forehead from Richards, promptly passed out. Seeing the concerned look on Napoleon’s face, the Bellhop touched Solo as well. Immediately his eyes closed; only the mini force field kept him upright.

***

“Nnngggh,” groaned Illya.

Exhausted from their last mission that particular sound from his partner woke Napoleon instantly.

They were in a rather plush hotel room, and for a change, not on a mission. Mr. Waverly had grudgingly agreed that his top team could stay in the tropics for a few more days; they’d been on back-to-back missions for the past month without respite (and, they couldn’t even get a flight home until Wednesday). Some early tropical storms had thinned out the usual tourist crowds, so they were able to get another room. A mini-vacation in a tropical paradise was just what the doctor ordered, for two tired super-spies. They were looking forward to some quality downtime, and the semi-nude beach, delightfully exotic meals, and a few clubs off the tourist-beaten track, were but a few of the temptations available, without the threat of Thrush (satrapy successfully snuffed).

Another groan brought Napoleon back to the present. “You okay?” he asked as he sat up in bed and looked over at his partner.

The blond head buried itself deeper into the covers but the pulled-up covers revealed a bare foot. Napoleon couldn’t resist. Moving quickly (and allowing himself a clear avenue of escape) he reached down and ran his finger lightly down the bottom of his partner’s foot.

That brought an immediate reaction. Eyes fully opened, lethal glare in place, Illya bounded out of bed after his antagonist. Only years of honing speedy reaction time, and an extremely high survival sense, allowed Napoleon to stay out of reach of his extremely irritated partner.

Trying not to laugh, Napoleon held up his hands in submission, “Illya, you wouldn’t want to kill me. Think of all the paperwork you’d have to complete.” He gave a critical look at his still-sleepy partner. Clad in pajamas, hair all askew, he looked rather endearing. Definitely a case of false packaging; the Russian was a death on two feet (or hands and knees or any other various combinations).

Seeing that he might live through this, Napoleon said coaxingly, “I’ll order room service. Breakfast should be here in, say, about thirty minutes.”

Features relaxing, Illya turned and started for the bathroom.

The sound of the shower came on. Napoleon went over to the closet trying to decide on which tie to wear today. After a moment, he decided to forego the tie; after all they _were_ on vacation. As he settled his coat carefully about his shoulders, he frowned as he studied the barest flaw in the line of the jacket. Reaching into the suit pocket, he pulled out a feather-light scarf. _What in the world…?_ He started to toss it carelessly on the dresser, but paused, and after a moment, folded the wispy material before placing it gently in his suitcase. 

That done, he returned to making plans. Hmm, maybe they could do a little sightseeing, hit one of the pristine beaches for a little sunbathing, perhaps lunch at one of those delightful outdoor cafes—maybe they could pick up a couple of pretty girls and go to one of the clubs later.

The shower stopped and Illya came out, toweling his hair as he walked to the dresser where he’s stowed his clothing.

“—so what do you say, shall we?” asked Napoleon after having laid out his suggestions for the rest of the day.

Illya appeared to be deep in thought. Studying his friend surreptitiously, he was surprised to find a touch of sadness in his eyes that had never been present before. The usual underlying spark that had always seemed to characterize Napoleon was now… missing. Illya was hard pressed to figure out when this could have happened. _He didn’t know it yet, but that joie de vivre would never return..._

Napoleon was about to repeat his question when Illya unexpectedly grinned, “Sure, why not?” 

 

**Epilogue  
 _October 1989_**

The mission had been a difficult one. They made their preliminary report to Sir John, and would report to headquarters in the morning for the final debriefing. Thrush never seemed to realize it was time to give up. After their brief resurgence a few years ago with Sephram, they’d been on a downward spiral but still kept going.

Consultants, pah! Although well over the mandatory field-agent age, because of their skills, experience (and probably their peculiar devotion to an archaic cause), they were still on active status for the occasional job for U.N.C.L.E., sandwiched between Napoleon’s ‘computer empire’ and Illya’s ‘fashion frenzy.’ Yeah, nice to be needed, but not so nice to be this tired and sore. 

As he grew older, Napoleon found himself wondering what his life would have been like if his first wife had lived, or if his second marriage hadn’t failed. Mr. Waverly had been right—U.N.C.L.E. agents made terrible husbands. Erica had seemed to be everything he wanted in a wife, from her statuesque beauty, to her independent womanliness. She’d had wonderfully wild curly hair that she’d grown long, at his tentative request. He sighed, remembering that while they had seemed compatible enough, there has always been something missing.

A quick glance at Illya showed an exhausted man; unusual since Illya never seemed to age, seeming possessed of boundless energy. His eyes settled on Illya’s ring-less fingers. When they were first partnered, Illya wore a wedding ring for the first few years of their partnership. Later, when he’d removed it, Napoleon wondered what happened, but respecting his partner’s privacy had never asked. He blinked suddenly with emotion, as Illya’s file flashed in his mind’s eye. Early last year he had given into his curiosity and hacked into the U.N.C.L.E. computers where, between his high security status and highly-honed skills, was finally able to read Illya’s file—and wished he hadn’t. Illya had been married when he first came to the United States, leaving behind a wife who later divorced him. The divorce had hit hard, but Illya had rallied, and became more... driven. Then, there was the daughter. Enticed by the lure of a father she’d never really known, the young girl had run away from home, and took up with gypsies, who later found their way into Yugoslavia. Sephram learned of this, and used Illya’s daughter against him, eventually killing her.

He winced from the memory of what he’d read, and from the pain his body was currently feeling. Maybe he _was_ too old for this. The baddies had gotten in a solid hit on Napoleon’s left side (despite the pain, he was pretty sure the ribs were only bruised). Illya had gotten the worst of it, if the already spectacular technicolor of bruising was any indication. 

Lately he’d found himself wondering if it were all a huge waste of time and energy. When he and Illya had first gotten together after those fifteen years apart, it seemed that everything was going finally to be… right—the _something_ that had been missing from his life all that time was finally going to come back. But—

Just inside the lobby of the Alexandria Hotel, Napoleon paused, catching his breath, “I suppose we should report to Medical,” he said slowly.

Illya looked at him as if he were slightly demented.

“Or, we could just go up to my place, maybe indulge in some truly decadent take-out?” Napoleon continued smoothly. “I have a bottle of Stolichnaya in the freezer,” coaxed Napoleon.

Illya quirked a brief grin, before he limped toward the elevator.

Once upstairs, Napoleon called for Chinese take-out (appropriate since the target they’d saved had been Chinese) while Illya made himself at home, and headed for the luxurious shower.

“Twenty minutes,” warned Napoleon.

***

They were relaxing in a final after-dinner drink, when Illya remarked, “It’s a good thing I’m taking a taxi home.” He rubbed his eyes, “My vision’s getting slightly funky.”

“Nice to see you’re keeping up on the slang,” approved Napoleon. “You know, you’re welcome…to… stay.” As he spoke, he blinked as he started staring at the walls.

The walls appeared to shimmer, and a misty shape suddenly appeared in the middle of the room.

“What the—?” 

And suddenly everything became clear. They remembered! Over twenty years ago they’d been given a promise and now it was about to be fulfilled.

_// do you wish to come //_

Illya and Napoleon looked at each other, smiled and turned back to the form who they could now see was the Bellhop…

“Jack!”

_// then come //_

Their bodies were immediately surrounded by a swirling mist, ever thickening around them, until suddenly they were young again—in their prime. As they were transported upward, they caught a final glimpse of the room below. Sprawled on the two couches were likenesses of their bodies, eyes closed and with a peaceful expression. It was a shame, really, that they’d never get a chance to finish that last report...

The walls faded away, and suddenly they could see inside the ship—to where Princess Shaylah was eagerly waiting with a blinding smile. Napoleon had only time to whisper longingly, “Shay!” as she rushed into his open arms. Kissing, hugging, crying—their joy was overflowing. 

Illya grinned at his friend’s joy until he found himself pulled into a group hug, by both Napoleon and Princess Shay. She found a moment to whisper into his ear, “Thank you for keeping him safe,” just as she found herself once more being kissed madly by her ardent suitor.

Illya moved back a step, watching with delight, as his best friend was finally where he was meant to be. All those years finishing their work with the Command had been needed; and later after they had struggled with their lives in their fashion and computer businesses, had also been needed—he saw that now. Even those lonesome, almost desolate years apart, when they had struggled getting their lives on track, had been a necessary part of what had forged them. Now, though—

Illya’s musings broke off as he suddenly spotted Tali in the small crowd of people who’d been with them on the previous Affair. When she saw she’d caught his eye, her slow smile seemed to make his heart skip a beat.

This new life was going to be great!


End file.
